Croy Division

The very first Scottish Juniors game I attended was the well-attended Pollok 1 Arthurlie 2, way back in February 2003. The next one was Benburb 5 Royal Albert 1 in September 2006 at the largely overgrown Tinto Park. The third was the opening of a dull new 4G cage at Petershill 1 Cumbernauld 2 in July 2007. All of these visits were in the company of my very good pal Mick Hydes, once of Ashington but a Scottish resident from 1997, initially Cowdenbeath and subsequently Paisley and the first two were on days after Teenage Fanclub gigs at the Barras. I’ve seen The Fannies on three subsequent occasions in Glasgow; 2010 at the ABC, 2014 in Kelvingrove Park and 2018 back at the Barras, but only the middle one of those (Yoker 1 Clydebank 1) saw me get to a Juniors game, though I did manage Partick Thistle 1 Ross County 1 in December 2010.

However, one tradition that Mick established with me a decade ago now, has been the annual end of season trip to Scotland for a Juniors game, made possible by a fixture card that extends into June, on account of myriad cup competitions and a formerly labyrinthine league promotion and relegation play off structure. It began in 2009 with a delve into the East for Bathgate Thistle 5 Forfar West End 2, which took Bathgate up and Forfar down. The next year I returned, alone this time, to Creamery Park for the East of Scotland Cup final, where Linlithgow defeated Mussleburgh 2-1. Back in the company of Mick, 2011 involved a visit to Arthurlie’s magnificent Dunterlie Park for a 2-2 with Irvine Meadow XI. The year after was Shotts 4 Girvan 3 at what was my second favourite Junior ground where, after a classic game, a car full of Neds asked us as we left at full time whether this was an Orange Walk, we were on.

One place they love those is Larkhall and I’d intended to get to the evocatively named Gasworks Park in 2013, but a track malfunction on the Queen Street lower level line put that on the back burner (geddit?) as I returned to Pollok for Glenafton triumphing over Glasgow Perthshire in the West of Scotland Cup final on penalties after a 2-2 draw. To make up for my misfortune, I ventured by myself to Kirkconnell in Dumfries for Kello Rovers 2 Yoker 4 the week after. In 2014, I was lucky enough to visit 2 more superb grounds; the quasi swimming pool that is Maryhill’s Lochburn Park for a 1-1 draw with Larkhall and then the regal magnificence of Linlithgow for my second ever East Juniors ground, seeing them pummel local rivals Bo’Ness United 4-1. Contrasting experiences were offered in 2015; the intensity afforded by Ayrshire’s most severe Tourette’s sufferer during Irvine Meadow XI 2 Arthurlie 2 and the laidback, pastoral ennui of Thornton Hibs 4 Lochee Harp 0, on the day I realised that the East of Scotland was a very different beast to the West. I should state that sectarianism isn’t the only cause of intemperate language in the West; everything is. Nowhere was swearing more popular than Beith 1 Auchinleck Talbot 1 in 2016, where the profanities outnumbered even the midges.

Even more midges in 2017, when at Newtongrange Star, my 4th East ground, where I saw the home side beat Forfar West End 1-0. Last year, I firstly took in Cumnock 2 Auchinleck Talbot 2, where the home side denied their hated local rivals the title and both sets of players had a good pagga on the stairs up to the changers at full time. Finally, the sociological paradise of Saracen Street on the northside saw me take in the two extremes of the Merchant City’s class structure, when Glasgow Perthshire lost 3-1 at home to Pollok. So, at the end of 2017/2018, I’d done 13 in the West and 4 in the East, just in time for a restructure.

The West boasts a healthy 63 teams in 4 divisions, with straight promotion and relegation, bolstered by 2 league cups; one open and one sectional. Nice, neat and logical. In the East they had 64 teams, but now, after mass defections to the Lowland League, including Linlithgow and Newtongrange, there are 36 teams, with a top league and two parallel North and South divisions. There are also 5 cup competitions, sprawling untidily across the arse end of May and the beginning of June, where fixtures aren’t even listed as yet, though I’m hoping to get to one on Saturday 8^th June, if the stars align, but I’m getting ahead of myself.

With all other football commitments and possibilities south of the border exhausted, it meant my first opportunity to head over the border would be Saturday 25^th May, which was also Cup Final day, meaning I’d try and keep away from Glasgow, which ruled out Larkhall. Distance kept me away from Largs and I’d already done Beith and Kello. Having thought deeply about it, I informed Mick that my chosen destination was, almost by both default and necessity, 6^th placed Kilsyth Rangers versus already relegated Girvan in the West Region Championship, or second division in old money. Consequently, I purchased a return to Croy and had an early night on the Friday.

I needn’t have worried about sleeping in as one of our cats had dropped something in the litter so vile smelling that it woke up me an hour early. This gave me a good chance to get sorted sharpish, so I found myself at Central Station in plenty of time, where the pleasant news emerged that because LNER had arsed up the ticketing for the 9.58 to Waverely, a load of us had been upgraded to First Class free, gratis and for nowt. What a result; it enabled me to firstly dismiss images of the red and white underclass who were off to claim the Trafalgar Square Defecation Trophy for the second time in 56 days, and secondly to glug down enough complimentary coffee to allow me to enact my famed Ray Liotta at the end of Goodfellas impersonation as we went through Dunbar.  With a bag weighed down by pilfered bottled water and buckshee bananas, I strode across the station forecourt to catch the 12.30 to Queen Street, calling at Haymarket, Falkirk High and Croy.

To my immense disappointment, the train was predominantly populated by the Gorgie dross, on their way to a predictable Cup final loss to the treble treble hunting Tic. I kept my own counsel and decamped as the clocks were striking thirteen into the teeth of a freezing gale, under slate grey skies and driving rain. Welcome tae Bonnie Scotland.  Indeed. Soon though the bus turned up and whisked me to the teeming North Lanarkshire metropolis of Kilsyth, where just about the only thing to do was mooch about in the drinks section of the local LIDL. Eventually though, Mick turned up with his greyhound Milburn and whisked me to the big game, after a mere 3 wrong turns on the 200-yard journey to the ground.

Having used my ancient, dog-eared WSJFA complimentary pass to get in for free, I did buy raffle tickets. I felt a bit guilty freeloading as Mick managed to get us an invite to the directors’ lounge for stewed tea and ginger snaps.  Through the window, I surveyed the magnificence of Duncansfield Park; elevated grass banking at either end, hard standing that doubled as a car park on one side, in front of the directors’ lounge and bar in one corner and changing facilities at the other, a narrow cinder track around the pitch and the crowning glory; a covered, terraced enclosure that runs the whole length of one side. Truly, it is second only to Arthurlie in terms of the splendour it offers the passing groundhopper, eclipsing the old-style charm of Shotts even.

The game wasn’t bad either. Despite it being a dead rubber, Kilsyth flew at Girvan, making and missing several presentable half chances, before a breakaway on the half hour saw a Girvan striker turn and fire ferociously into the roof of the net for a lead they kept until the break. After taking Davey Stoker’s advice and sampling a delicious Steak pie, we did a tour of the ground during the break, before settling back in the covered enclosure to see Girvan be granted a soft penalty that was finished with aplomb. Almost instantly, a scramble from a corner saw the home side halve the deficit, courtesy of a hopeful, outstretched leg.

A comeback seemed on the cards, but against the run of play, Girvan went 3-1 up when a deliciously curled free kick left the home keeper nonplussed. Kilsyth kept plugging away and reduced the gap again in the last few minutes with a strong finish after a stylish 1-2. It wasn’t enough ad the referee soon brought things to a close. Handshakes and not square goes were the order of the day as we all left the ground, sensing another season was now almost done.

My train to Edinburgh was held up by signals at Haymarket, so I opted to walk back to Waverley to pass the time, skirting the Scott Monument just as Celtic lifted the cup. I set my gaze towards Leith and my beloved Easter Road. The nearest I got to any sunshine on this rainy day. Soon I caught the almost deserted train home and was in the house just after 9; tired, but content. Next week it’s Auchinleck Talbot against Largs Thistle in the Scottish Junior Cup at Hamilton Accies; another one to look forward to.

The Final Coundon

Last week's blog on the parlous state of Bolton Wanderers garnered little response; here's hoping this week's piece on the almost certain demise of Coundon and Leeholme gains more attention -:

It must be almost 30 years since my one and only previous visit to Coundon, which was during my deeply inglorious playing days, when I seem to recall a 7-0 (or thereabouts) hammering for Brinkburn CA in a Wearside League game versus Coundon TT. The same day, and it seems scarcely credible to type this, Bishop Auckland beat Tow Law 2-0 in the FA Cup First Round Proper at Kingsway, which was held as the reason why there was a smaller than usual crowd for our game. Memories fade, but I still reckon there was over a hundred watching the slaughter. There would be almost double the amount of goals during this visit, though they were distributed move evenly at least.

Having ponced a lift down with my mate Stu, I noticed through the persistent drizzle that while the adjoining villages seem unchanged, the local Rec, shared with Coundon CC, is blessed with a new set of changers and a good car park, where cars are screened from much chance of damage by the cricket nets. One particularly encouraging sign was an accessible toilet; ideal for those of us with disabilities that are not visible. Still the same set of rusting, electrician’s tape festooned, wonky goal posts though.

One of the curses of a mild winter is that football finishes way too soon, which becomes even more galling when the weather stops play at the cricket. This game was the only one in the North East, bar the Berwick funeral, and I was surprised at the paltry turn out, given the fact that Coundon and Leeholme may well pack up as the management, players and most crucially committee, are decamping en masse to Brandon in Northern League Division 2, or La Liga as it is often known, proving that predatory big boys exist as step 6. Strangely there has been less than zero declamatory handwringing about this hostile takeover from any ostentatiously Corinthian social media gauleiters. Ironically, my final English game of last season also involved Wideopen, and their magnificently named Hertfordshire born player manager Leeroy Odd, who lost at home to Spittal Rovers on that occasion. The presence of the latter outfit in Tweedmouth hints at one reason why Coundon and Leeholme may prefer to switch to The Wearside League Division 2 if they continue.

Because of having to work around cricket fixtures (Coundon CC were away to the aptly named East Rainton on a day when play clearly wasn’t possible), this game had to be played on a Saturday. In the past, many Alliance sides have simply conceded meaningless kickabouts like this, but I’m glad the two sides resolved to keep their side of the bargain. Despite both teams being unable to move up or down the league, regardless of the final score, they somehow fashioned a blood and thunder classic where 13 goals were scored and possibly half a dozen others ruled out for specious offsides by the ever more partisan club linesmen, whose tit for tat tetchy semaphore in the second period suggested that catenaccio had made a comeback in rural West Durham.

Coundon and Leeholme were young, fast and able to play to feet. Wideopen were older, stronger and able to boot it further down the pitch in moments of great distress. The game exploded into life from the start, to the extent it was 4-2 after 21 minutes, with some quality moves and skilful finishes adding to the enjoyment. After the shortest half time I’ve ever come across, literally a minute, the two sides were at it again, trading goals and insults. Contentious offsides were met with barrages of daft insults, but the only nasty foul of the day saw the Wideopen victim get straight to his feet and hobble away smiling. He had to stay on as they’d fetched only the bare 11.

The home side had some subs, who were the fringiest of fringe players to be generous. One came on for the star striker, who was apparently a current Tow Law player (many Northern League lads drop into the Alliance at season’s end to help out their mates; witness Paul Brayson playing for Killingworth after Benfield ceased hostilities). He was so disgusted, he didn’t just hit the changers, he got his stuff together and zoomed away, with 2 slabs of Stella that were promised to his team mates to oil the end of season celebrations on his parcel shelf, much to the chagrin of his pals still on the pitch.

Eventually, the whistle blew; smiles and handshakes all round. Another season done and I was back in the house for the second half of Queen of the South versus Raith Rovers. Preparatory work for my pilgrimage to Kilsyth v Girvan next week….

Unhappy Wanderers

Another football club will die this weekend; Coundon & Leeholme of the Northern Alliance Division 2 have been swallowed by Brandon United of Northern League Division 2, to the utter indifference of many supposed lovers of the grassroots game. However, there are bigger clubs than Coundon in jeopardy; Bolton Wanderers for one. Here are my thoughts on their situation. Incidentally, this piece features in the next issue of STAND, which is out soon; please buy it, not just for this article.

History was always my favourite subject. The past and how it brought us to where we are now, has always fascinated me. It still does, even allowing for the fact I’m old enough to be part of history.  As proof of this, I take as my text the content of my son’s dissertation for his MA in Modern British Social History; a Situationist analysis of Factory Records’ importance to the cultural and economic life of Manchester between 1980 and 1992. Putting things in context, that span of time took me from doing my O Levels to getting married. It was very different in my schooldays. I was taught via a strict and inflexible adherence to the pedagogically discredited methodology of a minute focus on chronological lists of kings, battles and conquests. Take for instance the British History aspect of my A Level syllabus. It covered the period 1868 to 1951; from Gladstone’s first administration to the defeat of Attlee’s post-war Labour Government. We’ll draw a veil over the latter event, shall we?

Now William Ewart Gladstone was an appallingly pompous, small-minded, dull little man, who just happened to be a fairly progressive social reformer in the context of the times in which he lived. He took most of his ideological inspiration from the Good Book, but the rest of it came from his annual summer holidays, which were spent cruising the fjords of Norway. You see Gladstone, clearly eschewing the messages relayed by the plays of Henrik Ibsen, felt that Norway, whilst not being quite an earthly paradise, was pretty much the ideal version of the small nation state; economically prosperous, socially cohesive, politically stable and in state of peaceful co-existence with her neighbours. Gladstone viewed Norway as the country to model Ireland upon and sought to “pacify” the Home Rule movement by sharing his devotion to such ideas which, bearing in mind subsequent developments, probably explains why Gladstone is more fondly remembered for a style of holdall favoured by medics than his political ideals.

However, and you need to hear me out on this, the concept of Gladstone’s Norway seemed to have been revived in an unfashionable corner of Lancashire from the early to mid-1990s onwards. Bearing in mind the seemingly unending fiasco of failed takeover bids and flirtations with administration, it seems a scarcely credible thing to suggest, but Bolton Wanderers were held up as a shining example of a modest club punching well above their weight among the game’s behemoths. They were a club who drew praise across the whole spectrum of football analysts. In short, The Trotters were Gladstone’s Norway in Reeboks. Sadly, Bolton have declined from the romance of their vie en rose to the demotic drudgery of a second relegation to League 1 in 3 seasons. The last few years have seen their fortunes crumble into ashes in a way eerily reminiscent of the stalled careers of the town’s most famous sons. Stu Francis, Damon Gough, Amir Khan, Tony Knowles, Ralf Little and Paddy McGuinness, not forgetting Vernon and Peter Kay; that joke isn’t funny anymore…

The first time I visited Burnden Park was all the way back in August 1982; it was Kevin Keegan’s second game for Newcastle United, and we won 2-1. After that season, NUFC and Bolton’s fortunes diverged to the extent that I didn’t get back there until our next visit, in August 1995, when we won 3-1. The antiquated ground seemed almost unchanged, except for the construction of a supermarket that appeared to have been plonked in the middle of the away end for no other reason than to reduce the capacity. Of course, Bolton had taken steps to reduce their debt by selling off this piece of land as, having made the decision to appoint Phil Neal as manager in 1983, they’d spent 9 years kicking around the bottom 2 divisions in front of about 3,000 diehards.

Things began to change for the better in summer 1992 when Bruce Rioch, fresh from recent P45s at Middlesbrough and Millwall, emerged as something of an unlikely folk hero when he took on the manager’s job. Rioch is viewed now as something of an anachronism; a crew cut, Scottish sergeant major with a cut glass English accent and a reputation for an almost Calvinistic devotion to hard graft. However, he got the Trotters playing some sparkling football. The first green shoots were seen in a 2-0 FA Cup win at Anfield in January 1993, when they knocked out the holders in a replay. Inspired by this night of glory, the side went on a strong run of form and won promotion back to the second tier for the first time in a decade at the end of that season. After a year’s consolidation, Bolton won promotion to the top flight after an almost forgotten Wembley classic; their eye-catching side containing John McGinlay, Andy Walker, David Lee, Jason MacAteer and Alan Stubbs, came back from 2-0 to beat Reading 4-3 in the play-off final, making up for the disappointment of a League Cup final defeat to Liverpool two months earlier.

Sadly, their debut campaign in the Premier League ended in relegation. Rioch, still dripping in celebratory champers, went to manage Arsenal before May was out, while McAteer was sold to Liverpool and Stubbs to Everton. New boss Colin Todd tried his best and had them playing decent football, but the squad was out of their depth. There was some good news though; antiquated Burnden Park would be replaced by the state-of-the-art Reebok Stadium. By the time it opened in 1997, Todd had guided Bolton back to the Premier League, though they were again relegated in summer 1998. He took them to the play-off final in 1999 but resigned after losing 2-0 to Watford. Todd’s departure ushered in the era that defined the modern Bolton Wanderers in the eyes of most football supporters; the reign of Sam Allardyce.

While the popular opinion regarding the hippo headed, Bisto and Chardonnay snakebite quaffing, boor is one of contempt verging on revulsion, it has to be noted that having recently taken Notts County up from the bottom tier with a record points total, the chain-smoking, moustachioed pre-millennium edition Allardyce was genuinely seen as an innovative voice in the game. In his first season Bolton reached the semi-finals of the League Cup and FA Cup, as well as the play-offs, but came up short in all three. A year later, they defeated Preston in the play-off final and returned to the Premiership for the third time, where they would remain for 11 seasons.

The unfashionable Yonners, so scorned by their streetwise Mancunian cousins were effectively the second side in King Cotton country, with Massive Club Citeh, regularly enduring home defeats to the likes of Bury and Stockport, floundering in their wake. While Allardyce’s football was never a style to please the purist, the presence of such fading stars as Nicholas Anelka, Yuri Djorkaeff, Fredi Bobic, Fernando Hierro, Jay Jay Okocha and Ivan Campo made Bolton an intriguing, eccentric and valuable presence in the Premier League. They didn’t win any silverware, but they were runners-up in the League Cup in 2004 and recorded 4 consecutive top 8 finishes, a record of consistency bettered only by Chelsea, Manchester United, Liverpool and Arsenal. Allardyce, having led the Trotters to a UEFA Cup last 16 place, bailed out after 8 years at the helm in summer 2007, heading straight for a disastrous spell on Tyneside, but we’ll ignore that eh?

Post Big Sam, the smart money had been on Bolton dropping like a stone, but after a false start under Sammy Lee, the admittedly fractious and dislikeable Gary Megson came in to do a decent job, before he was replaced by Owen Coyle. If the Liverpool result in January 1993 had been the harbinger of positive things to come, this appointment saw the first tolling of the Trotters’ funeral bell in April 2011, when Stoke City annihilated Bolton 5-0 in an FA Cup semi-final. The following season, marred by Fabrice Muamba’s near death experience on the pitch at White Hart Lane, saw Bolton relegated on the final day. Since then, it’s been one train wreck of a season and one car crash of a manager after another. Coyle; bulleted. Dougie Freedman; shown the door after a torrid reign. Neil Lennon; even he couldn’t work his magic with a club £172.9 million in debt and a winding up petition from HMRC hanging over them. Summer 2016 Bolton were relegated to League 1, but immediately gained promotion under Phil Parkinson. However, it’s the off the pitch story that is really worrying.

The aforementioned £173m debt (so much for parachute payments eh?) was announced around the same time that news of owner Eddie Davies’s terminal illness broke. This was the bloke who, alongside Sam Allardyce, seemed to be a synthesis of the best bits of Richard Scudamore and Peter Ridsdale; seriously, he was praised as being one of the new breed of go-ahead, entrepreneurial tycoons who were taking their local teams on to greater and better things. His death in 2016 coincided with Lennon’s dismissal and a takeover of Bolton by former player Dean Holdsworth’s Sport Shield organisation. None of these events brought any good news to the club. After exiting the Premier League, Davies curtailed his investment into the club. This brought the club very close to being wound up, but as a gesture of his goodwill and as incentive to sell the club, Davies promised to wipe over £125m of debt owed to him when the club was sold, which wiped a significant proportion of debt the club owed.

Since the club’s acquisition by Sports Shield and subsequent sole ownership by Ken Anderson, intractable financial difficulties have dogged the club despite on-field success in League One following the 2016 relegation with player strikes, further winding up orders and financial disputes with other creditors. Despite the aforementioned promotion under Parkinson and a queasy, last day survival act in 2018, things were still lousy. Indeed Holdsworth’s disastrous involvement only ended in September 2018 after it was reported that unless the club settled unpaid loans of nearly £5 million that Holdsworth had taken out to buy the club, then Bolton would go into administration, losing 12 points and going into a two-year transfer embargo as a result. In the end, club president Davies loaned Ken Anderson £5 million to pay the debt, four days before his death, with the debt falling to Anderson after he bought Holdsworth out.

From that point on, Bolton have been forced into an ever more insecure hand to mouth existence, to the extent it seems they are permanently on the verge of not just administration but oblivion.  In February 2019, they were again issued with a winding-up petition by HMRC which was subsequently adjourned, until the end of the season, to allow the impecunious Anderson’s search for a new owner continued.  The financial difficulties placed games against Ipswich, Middlesbrough and Aston Villa in jeopardy, threatened with postponement or being played behind closed doors as the local council Safety Advisory Group prepared to revoke the stadium safety certificate. Meanwhile, the adjoining Bolton Whites Hotel, owned by Ken Anderson, was also issued with a winding-up petition in March 2019.

It was almost a blessed relief once the team were put out of their misery and relegated to League 1 in April, although there was far greater ignominy to come, when the home game with Brentford was called off by 16 hours before kick off after Bolton's players, supported by the Professional Footballers' Association, refused to play until they had received their unpaid wages. Two cheers to the PFA, although it should be pointed out that if Gordon Taylor flogged a couple of the watercolours hanging in his office, Bolton would be solvent again.  The game was subsequently awarded to Brentford 1-0, with the travelling Bees fans still waiting for their refunds on travel and tickets at the time of writing. A predictable farce.

2018/2019 was a truly rancid season for Bolton Wanderers, but at least they reached the end of it. FA Trophy winners in 2015 North Ferriby United had no such luck; faced with the prospect of a third successive relegation, club owner Jamie Waltham, in the manner of a medieval tyrant turfing peasants from their tied cottages at the end of a pitch fork, wound the club up over an unpaid debt of £7,645.25, which is about what Bolton are losing every hour. Thankfully, Ferriby have reformed and the Villagers will begin again in the Northern Counties East League for 2019/2020, at either Step 5 or Step 6. It’s a long way from the Conference, but at least there’s a clear progression pathway. No such silver lining appears forthcoming for Ferriby’s recent opponents Gateshead who, despite another top half finish in the National League, have been booted out of their (admittedly dreadful) International Stadium home, as current owner and chair Dr Ranjan Varghese pretends to try and sell the club who now have a single registered player and no other employees, while seeming to try and shift the club over the river to the Kingston Park home of rugby clubs Newcastle Falcons and Newcastle Thunder, where Newcastle Blue Star once had a single disastrous season in the National League North before falling off the perch in 2008. Quite why Varghese wants to go there is beyond comprehension. However while Gateshead continue to exist, there is no prospect of a phoenix club gaining admission to the Northern League, which is the same level as Ferriby will start from, as the club already exists. Gateshead Reserves have stated their intention to quit the Northern Alliance at Step 7, which may give any Tyneside rive gauche renaissance men a place to begin. Ironically, Dunston UTS, home of the Paul Gascoigne stand, won the Northern League and will be at Step 4 in the Northern Premier League East next season.

While the meritocratic principle of relegation suggests Bolton Wanderers will be plying their trade in League 1 next year, this may not be the end of the story. On May 8th 2019 the Bolton Wanderers were given 14 days to appoint an administrator to sort out their £1.2m tax bill. If this is the case and a takeover cannot be completed in time, Bolton will begin next season with a compulsory 12 point deduction before a ball has been kicked. Mind that could be preferable to having Laurence Bassini in charge, if his seemingly fictional takeover bid goes through.

Bassini, declared bankrupt in 2007, bought Watford in 2011, sold them a year later, refused to pay back £1.3m he’d taken in cash advances, before really raising the bar in 2013 by going bankrupt again (the judge described Bassini as ‘evasive' and ‘a maker of empty threats'), texting the Hertfordshire Observer to revel in Watford’s play-off defeat to Palace and getting  banned from being involved with any club for 3 years by the FA, who described him as "dishonest in his dealings with the league and with his fellow directors" and someone who "practised secrecy and deception." Just the kind of fit and proper owner Bolton need; if it’s enough to make William Gladstone weep, then how on earth must the likes of Nat Lofthouse feel looking down on this mess?

TAL RIP

This Saturday, May 11th, Morpeth FC and Ponteland United Reserves will contest the last ever game in the entire history of the Tyneside Amateur League. The John Hampson Memorial Trophy kicks off at Benfield at 2.30pm; admission is £2 and £1 concessions. Children and dogs go free, but best behave themselves or else. From next season, we will be the Northern Alliance Development division. It's sad to say goodbye to 70 years of history, but it is the right decision. In recognition of this, here are my 3 sets of programme notes from this year's finals -:

Good afternoon everyone. Thanks for supporting the Tyneside Amateur League by coming down today. On what I hope is a gloriously sunny day, I’d like to welcome all players, supporters and officials of our two competing clubs, Haltwhistle Jubilee and Gosforth Bohemians Reserves, as well as all other spectators, whether you are connected to a Tyneside Amateur League club or not, to Sam Smith’s Park, home of my beloved Newcastle Benfield FC, for the 70^th Tyneside Amateur Shield final. My first vote of thanks must go to Benfield’s Chairman Jimmy Rowe and all of the committee for allowing us the use of such an impressive ground. It really is appreciated.

This fine old competition was first won in 1949/1950 by Hazlerigg Welfare, who retained it the year after. Since then, 52 other clubs have hoisted the august trophy aloft, with Heddon Institute the most successful side, with 4 wins to their name.  We will see a 54^th different name engraved on the trophy after this game which, sadly, will be the last Shield final played under the auspices of the Tyneside Amateur League as the constituent clubs have voted, with the full support of the League Management Committee, to merge with another storied local competition, The Northern Football Alliance, which has been in existence since 1890. It is not a decision any of us have taken lightly, but it represents, in the face of a constantly diminishing pool of actual clubs and potential players, the only realistic opportunity to provide organised, competitive, Saturday afternoon football at our grassroots level.

Putting thoughts of both the future and the past on hold for the moment, let’s concentrate on the present day and the game at hand. During my 5 seasons as League Chair, I have always held Gosforth Bohemians Reserves in the highest regard. Based at the scenic Benson Park ground in Brunton Park, just off the Great North Road, the team that can trace their club’s foundation all the way back to 1894, have always sought to play football the right way, upholding the amateur sporting code in every possible way. In the season just ending, they secured a commendable 5^th place finish in the league, while their route to the final saw them benefit from a bye in round 1 and a concession by Newcastle Benfield Reserves in round 2, before they got the best of a five-goal-thriller in their semi-final at home to Wideopen A. I’m sure Bohs will do their best to uphold the traditions bound up in their long history in this afternoon’s game.

In contrast, Haltwhistle Jubilee have only been with us for 2 seasons, but during this time they have achieved a commendable degree of success on the pitch. Last year, their first in Saturday football, they reached the final of the Northumberland FA Minor Cup at Whitley Park, only to come up against the Northern Alliance’s version of Galacticos, in the shape of Killingworth Town. In the same competition, they reached the semi-final stage this year, but one piece of silverware is securely in their grasp. Again, in its 70^th and final season, they have been crowned champions of the Tyneside Amateur League. Having lost only 1 game all year, they are fittingly the 50^th different club to have achieved this accolade. Even if the league were to be continuing, Haltwhistle are precisely the kind of club for whom the Northern Alliance is the next logical step up the football pyramid, so we’d have been wishing them all the best for the future in any case.

Instead, I wish both teams and the officials of course, the best of luck today and all of our other clubs the very best of luck in the future. Please join us in the bar at full time for a bite to eat and the chance to raise a glass and don’t forget, we’ll be back here again next Saturday, May 4^th for the second of our three finals, when Newcastle Chemfica Amateurs take on West Jesmond in the Neville Cowey Cup. Kick off is 2pm.

Good afternoon everyone. Thanks for supporting the Tyneside Amateur League by coming along today. On what I hope is a gloriously sunny day, I’d like to welcome all players, supporters and officials of our two competing clubs, Newcastle Chemfica Amateurs and West Jesmond, as well as all other spectators, whether you are connected to a Tyneside Amateur League club or not, to Sam Smith’s Park, home of my beloved Newcastle Benfield FC. My first vote of thanks must go to Benfield’s Chairman Jimmy Rowe and all of the committee for allowing us the use of such an impressive ground. It really is appreciated.

We are here today to see the for the 7th and last Neville Cowey Cup final. As is common knowledge amongst us all, this is the last time this trophy will be played for under the auspices of the Tyneside Amateur League as the constituent clubs have voted, with the full support of the League Management Committee, to merge with another storied local competition, The Northern Football Alliance, which has been in existence since 1890. It is not a decision any of us have taken lightly, but it represents, in the face of a constantly diminishing pool of actual clubs and potential players, the only realistic opportunity to provide organised, competitive, Saturday afternoon football at our grassroots level.

Putting thoughts of both the future and the past on hold for the moment, let’s concentrate on the present day and the game at hand. This Neville Cowey Cup, named after the gentleman who has given this league such sterling, dedicated service over many, many years, replaced the John Hampson Memorial Trophy as our league cup, for the 20012/2013 season. It was first won by one of today’s competing outfits, West Jesmond, who also captured it in 2015/2016, having also won the John Hampson the year previously as part of a cup double, when they also hoisted aloft the enigmatic Selcray Bowl after the only time it was contested. It could be said that West Jesmond are something of specialist cup side, but this should not make them rest on their laurels, nor intimidate their opponents, as we hope to show that this game, rather than the one kicking off at St James’ Park this evening, is the top contest on Tyneside today.   

Last week we saw the epitome of a game of two halves in the Tyneside Amateur Shield final. The simple facts are the game went to form and Haltwhistle Jubilee beat Gosforth Bohemians Reserves 2-1, but it could have been 10-0 to Halty at the break and 10-10 at full time, as chance after chance went begging. In the end, the best team won and completed the double, having won the league title. However, in many ways I am glad it was a season ending game for both clubs, as it means in our final year, 6 clubs get to play in our 3 finals, as we meet here again next Saturday at the same time for the John Hampson Memorial Trophy, which will see Morpeth Town Seniors and Ponteland United Reserves engage.

During my 5 seasons as League Chair, I have always held both West Jesmond and Newcastle Chemfica Amateurs in the highest regard. Both sides epitomise the ethos of the Tyneside Amateur League; aspire to be the best you can but keep a sense of proportion as this is social football at the end of the day. In the season just ending, West Jesmond finished 6^th and Chemfica Amateurs 8^th, so this final is a welcome bonus for both of them.  To reach this stage, West Jesmond won away 4-3 to Red House Farm Seniors in the first round and 4-1at the Medicals in the quarter final, before seeing off Gosforth Bohemians Reserves 4-2 at home in the semi. In contrast Chemfica amateurs had an easier time of it; a bye in the first round and a walkover against Ellington Reserves in the quarter finals, before they shaded Swalwell 3-2 at home in the other semi-final. However the two teams got here; I wish them all the best for today. I also wish the officials the best of luck today and all of our other clubs the very best of luck in the future. Please join us in the bar at full time for a bite to eat and something to drink.

Good afternoon everyone. Thanks for supporting the Tyneside Amateur League by coming along today for what will be the last ever game under our auspices, when Morpeth FC and Ponteland United Reserves contest the John Hampson Memorial Trophy. On what I hope is a gloriously sunny day, I’d like to welcome all players, supporters and officials of both competing sides, as well as all other spectators, whether you are connected to a Tyneside Amateur League club or not, to Sam Smith’s Park, home of my beloved Newcastle Benfield FC. My first vote of thanks must go to Benfield’s Chairman Jimmy Rowe and all of the committee for allowing us the use of such an impressive ground. It really is appreciated.

We are here today to see the 13^th and last John Hampson Memorial Trophy final. As is common knowledge amongst us all, this is the last time this trophy will be played for under the auspices of the Tyneside Amateur League as the constituent clubs have voted, with the full support of the League Management Committee, to merge with another storied local competition, The Northern Football Alliance, which has been in existence since 1890. It is not a decision any of us have taken lightly, but it represents, in the face of a constantly diminishing pool of actual clubs and potential players, the only realistic opportunity to provide organised, competitive, Saturday afternoon football at our grassroots level.

One insight into why we all feel compelled to wind up this glorious old league after 70 years of honest toil and endeavour, is the fact we were required to bring this competition out of retirement, having not been contested since Hazlerigg Victory claimed it in 2014 at Percy Main’s Purvis Park ground, as there were so few teams left in our league, we were in danger of the season ending long before the clocks came forward. Consequently, the 8 teams who expressed a desire to enter the competition played in 2 mini-leagues of 4, with the two group winners progressing to the final.

Morpeth topped Group A with three victories that saw them triumphant away to Chemfica Amateurs and Red House Farm, and at home to West Jesmond. In Group B, Ponteland won their two away games against Wideopen A and and Gosforth Bohemians Reserves, though they were held at home by Swalwell. In the last ever league table for the season just ending, Morpeth finished second to double winners Haltwhistle Jubilee, with Ponteland three points further back in third, so this promises to be a high quality encounter between two of the best footballing sides we’ve had in the league.

Last week, we saw West Jesmond claim a 7-6 win on penalties over Chemfica Amateurs in the Neville Cowey Cup, where the gallant losers picked themselves up from the canvass, being 3-0 down before the half hour mark and drawing level in the second period. It was a great game to watch, as was Haltwhistle’s triumph in the Tyneside Amateur Shield a fortnight ago, when they saw off Gosforth Bohemians 2-1. One small source of joy for me is that in our final year, 6 clubs qualified to play in our 3 finals, to spread the experience of a final and silverware around as many of the players as possible.

During my 5 seasons as League Chair, I have always held Ponteland, who were champions in 2016/2017 in the highest regard. Morpeth, since their arrival in the league in 2016/20127, when they were debutant winners of the Tyneside amateur Shield are a club that I similarly admire. Both sides epitomise the ethos of the Tyneside Amateur League; aspire to be the best you can but keep a sense of proportion. I wish the two teams all the best for today; let’s hope this game is the fitting send-off the Tyneside Amateur League deserves.

I also the officials the best of luck today and all of our other clubs the very best of luck in the future. Please join us in the bar at full time for a bite to eat and something to drink, remembering the words of the great traditional Scottish folk singer Sheila Stewart, who so eloquently put it -:

Kind friends and companions once more let us join,

Come raise up your glasses in a chorus with mine.

Come fill up your glasses, all griefs to refrain

For we may or might never all meet here again.

Regards,

ian cusack

Chair, Tyneside Amateur League

Kurious Oranjeism

One of the things I like most about the end of each season is the way that all the issues regarding promotion and relegation are decided in such an unpredictable and seemingly haphazard way, rather than blandly occurring on the final day. I’m not just talking about the hysterical hyperbole surrounding the Liverpool and Manchester City power struggle at the top of the Premier League, but battles for supremacy further down the pyramid as well; specifically the promotion race in League One. Who on earth could have seen such a dramatic and climactic denouement occurring before kick off on Tuesday 30^th April? Portsmouth, apparently revitalised after their Checkatrade Trophy success, with a seeming home banker against a Peterborough side who’d started well, but appeared to have lost momentum long before their failure to reach the play-offs became an established fact; the 3-2 away win with a brace from NUFC legend Ivan Toney came right out of left field. Kenny Jackett will be left scratching his Easter Island head about his failure to get Pompey up. Titter ye not!

Meanwhile, on the Lancashire coast, a team I’d once seen dump this season’s Northern League Champions UTS Dunston out of the preliminary round FA Cup back in September 2000, Fleetwood Town were hosting the world’s biggest club, with the stakes only marginally raised by pre match theatrics by Fleetwood boss Joey Barton’s comment that he like to send the 25,000 visiting fans home “with tears in their eyes.” Don’t get me wrong; I dislike Barton intensely and could easily file 5,000 words on why the paranoid, arrogant little twerp’s main personality problem is vanity not insanity, but the way his superb judged bon mots riled the globe’s best supporters had me giggling. Not as much as the home side’s 95^th minute winner I’ll admit, but more than a gentle smirk. Possibly the only player with less moral integrity who has played for Newcastle in recent times is the appalling Lee Bowyer. He is now boss of Charlton Athletic. For some reason I’d quite like the Addicks to take the last remaining slot available through the play-offs.

Of course, the real and absolute impact of the mirthsome wins for Fleetwood and Peterborough was to confirm promotion for both Barnsley and Luton Town, without either of them being required to kick a ball. There are those who suggest gaining elevation in such circumstances is somehow a hollow, debased achievement, but having been in a similar situation in 2010 when Nottingham Forest’s inability to see off Cardiff City assured Newcastle of a top 2 finish, I can confirm that the joy is no less unconfined. At the end of the season, you finish exactly where you deserve to be, as the table can’t lie; the fruits of your labours are rewarded by and reflected in the points you accrue. Some other chasing team stumbling, face first in the dirt, in your wake is their problem, not yours.

Anyone who knows me even slightly will be familiar with my family ties to Barnsley, the home town of my son’s mother and her whole family who I’m still delighted to be on good terms with. This means I’ve more than a soft spot for the Tykes. Having first seen Newcastle play at Oakwell back in 1983 and subsequently found myself in the home end on numerous occasions between a 2-0 victory over Bristol City on New Year’s Day 1991 and a 1-0 loss to Crawley Town in August 2014, I think it’s fair to say I look upon Barnsley as my second English league side. Therefore, for many reasons, I am elated for The Tykes that they’ve gone up. However, and this may surprise you, Luton Town are the club I’m indirectly writing about here.

I’m guessing the last time I saw Luton play was March 26^th 1994; they lost 1-0 at Oakwell to a 75^th minute Andy Payton goal in a pretty uneventful game. The time before that was a couple of months previously when they held Newcastle to a 1-1 draw at SJP as a prelude to dumping us out the FA Cup in a replay at Kenilworth Road. My terminal estrangement from Newcastle United means I had no intention of taking in the last FA Cup meeting between the sides on Tyneside; a 3-1 home win in January 2018, when the loathsome fascist slug Stephen Yaxley Lennon got his grid all over a series of sick selfies with a load of the big-coated, small-brained, cesspool-dwelling element of our support.

In many ways, it’s no surprise that Yaxley Lennon comes from Luton which, as a place, is a microcosm of all that is wrong with England today: inadequate schools, hospitals and housing, a dearth of secure, meaningful, well-paid jobs, rocketing violent crime levels, widespread substance abuse and a lack of community cohesion that has seen pronounced tensions escalate along religious and ethnic lines over the past decade. The reason for this shameful state of affairs is obvious; Tory misrule, pure and simple, but not just following the pernicious and evil dogma of austerity, introduced after the  calamitous election of 2010, instead going back to the establishment of Thatcher’s police state in 1979. Luton has, by any measure of social deprivation, been a complete hell hole for the last 40 years or so. However, ask any football fan of a certain age what they think of Luton and they’ll express dislike bordering on revulsion that has nothing to do with plastic pitches. The reason is one man and one man only; David Evans.

From November 1984 to June 1989, Evans was the chairman of Luton Town and during his tenure, which included Millwall’s famous impromptu redecoration of much of the ground, he presided over a controversial membership-only scheme for fans under which only members were allowed to attend matches at Kenilworth Road, resulting in a de facto complete blanket ban on away supporters. This restrictive, draconian and ultimately unworkable measure inspired Thatcher and the weasel Colin Moynihan, her Minister of Sport, to try and impose it on all football fans after the Heysel Disaster. Thankfully, this foolhardy enterprise was abandoned, but only after the deaths of 96 innocent people at Hillsborough brought some of the Tories, if not Thatcher, to their senses.

Additionally, to heap further ordure on his corpse, Evans represented Welwyn Hatfield as the Conservative Member of Parliament from 1987, until he lost at the 1997 general election to Melanie Johnson. Shortly before his delightful unseating, in early March of that year, he attracted controversy over offensive remarks made during an interview with sixth-formers at Stanborough School, in which he referred to his opponent as a "single girl" (she was 42 years old at the time) with "bastard children", topping this by claiming the Birmingham Six were guilty and had "killed hundreds" before being caught, as well as vile, racist comments, such as asking how the sixth-formers would feel if their daughter was raped by "some black bastard". Obviously, the Tories did nothing to censure Evans for these sickening outbursts, but at least The Six won substantial damages from Evans in July 1998, who thereafter apologised for what he had said and promised never to repeat it; even if he still thought it.

Looking back at this situation dispassionately, it seems unthinkable for any rational person to have a soft spot for Luton Town, but I did for a couple of years from around 1973 onwards. About that time, I regarded Eric Morecambe as a real influence and a bit of a hero; a big, daft, funny bloke who was just the sort of uncle you wished you’d had, instead of the moaning shower of humourless wankers the old fella had for brothers and brothers in law. All that Bring Me Sunshine and spec wobbling carry on used to have me in fits and when I learned the Bartholomew fella was a director with The Hatters, it sealed the deal for me. Not that I remember seeing all that much of them playing football; they didn’t feature on Match of the Day and it was only when ITV decided to show The Big Match instead of our own local highlights programme Shoot that you got to see games from other regions. One of those was a fifth round FA Cup tie in February 1974; Newcastle won 3-0 at West Brom, but that was on MotD and the Mackems were already out, so we got Brian Moore on the mic from Kenilworth Road for a rare treat. Luton were banjoed 4-0 by Leicester and Uncle Eric didn’t get interviewed afterwards. However, the glorious, bright orange of the home shirts stood out amid the Keith Weller inspired carnage on the pitch. Impressive or what?

Lighter than the dull, aoristic hues of the old gold worn by Wolves and Southport and brighter than the queasy vivacity of tangerine tops worn by Blackpool and Dundee United, this orange was as sparkly and 70s as Spangles and Opal Fruits. From then on, I furtively roared The Hatters on to promotion, courtesy of following their progress in the paper and on Sports Report, rather than the more geographically adjacent Middlesbrough or Carlisle, who were the first and third sides in the second division success sandwich with runners-up Luton. As a sensitive 9 year old, I must state this didn’t make up for Newcastle having their arses handed to them at Wembley in the FA Cup final when Liverpool twatted us 3-0 and I spent hours afterwards sobbing on the back step.

Replica shirts may no longer have the degree of ubiquity afforded them in the late 90s, but they still remain a gaudy and regrettable fashion statement among countless millions of football fans, both of the match going and barstool varieties. The birth of this phenomenon may probably be traced back to the seething foment unleashed on the domestic game post Italia 90 and pre Premier League; certainly it was unheard of in my youth to see any adults, other than players, wearing a football top. Kids were different of course. There were always bairns’ sizes available.

I got my first Newcastle United kit, comprising shirt, shorts and socks, for Christmas 1972 when I was 8 years old. The socks were nylon, but the shirt and shorts were heavy duty serge cotton of the kind that absorbed water and dirt like the world’s most efficient kitchen roll. I wore it to play football and nothing else, generally returning from timeless Saturday morning 20-a-side pick-up games with mud up to my eyebrows, to get a clout and a bath in that order, while the black and white shirt steeped in a bucket of ACDO by the back door until the dirt had loosened enough for a gentle hand wash on the Wednesday, before getting it all clarty again the next weekend.

Despite the shirt fading and stretching below my knees like a 1920s flapper dress, as opposed to the poor sods whose mams had boil washed their kits down to Action Man size in their new fangled frontloading washing machines, it never crossed my mind to get another team’s shirt. Indeed, the only person I knew with one was a lad called Colin who was a year ahead of me at Falla Park Juniors. He had a Crystal Palace top; the white one with the 3 vertical thin stripes in the middle. He always wore it to play in our mass games on Heatherwell Green, but I don’t recall asking him why he liked it or how he came by it.

Then things changed rapidly in the late summer of 1974. For a start, I turned 10 and went in to top class at school, which meant I got to play for the school team; a privilege only ever afforded to final year lads. We had a new kit to strut around in as well; out in the skip had gone the old, heavy duty cotton yellow and red quarters that are the colours of Northumberland county and in came an exact replica of Birmingham City and Carlisle United’s penguin kits, provided by the dad of Deborah St Croix. Interestingly, she was the youngest person in our year, being born the day after me.  The school team looked the biz, storming past High Felling 6-3 and Low Board 7-1, though a 6-0 loss at Lingey House put us back on our heels for a bit. Still, we were proud to play for the (brand new) shirt. Mind, lovely though it was, it wasn’t the most beautiful piece of kit on show that season.

At some point in late August, I saw a photo of Luton Town’s squad; all beaming smiles beneath copper taches and bubble perms. I could have fainted when I saw their shirt; dazzlingly bright orange with a thin white stripe on the left hand side, with even thinner navy blue stripes either side of it. Orange, courtesy of Holland’s dazzling heroics at the 74 World Cup, was enjoying a renaissance and I simply fell in love with this garment. Having missed seeing this garment on sale or even in public before my August 11^th birthday, I begged my parents for this shirt for Christmas, even if the schools had just gone back. They didn’t comprehend; I supported Newcastle, not Luton. Why did I want this kit? All I could say was I liked the design. Remember, in those days buying a replica kit wasn’t as easy a task as it is now. No internet. No discount football clothing outlets. Just Colin Todd Sports (I think he opened it after Derby won the title in 72, cashing in on his moderate fame, while coming from Pelton Fell just down the road, and then never darkening the doors again) in Gateshead High Street. By October half term I’d railroaded my mam into ordering it for me from the manufacturers, Admiral. All I had to do was wait until Santa had been.

Christmas Day 1974 saw me the proud recipient of my first ever Rothman’s Football Yearbook, damaging my eyesight by reading the print off the page,  Roxy Music’s Country Life LP, which I played incessantly while ruining my eyesight with the cover and, best of all, a Luton Town shirt. Every Christmas morning since I could walk unaided, we’d had a game of football on Heatherwell Green, getting ourselves hacky from head to toe in time for Christmas Dinner. This year was different; it lashed it down all day. That wouldn’t normally have prevented me going out, but it was excuse enough for the parents to keep me indoors. Naturally I sulked, but at least it meant I got to wear the Luton shirt all day.

Up close it was even more magical than in a photo; it boasted an Admiral logo on the right hand side, same as the England shirt of the period, though as an Ireland fan this didn’t impress me unduly. The differing stripes on the left hand side had been individually sewn in; in fact, they seemed welded together. In all the time I had the shirt; the seams never loosened or gave, much less unravelled. And you know what? I started to wear the shirt when I wasn’t playing football. Indeed, when it was suggested to me that Luton’s 1-0 win over Newcastle in February 1975 may have pleased me, I vigorously denied such as accusation. Love the shirt; remain indifferent to the team was my motto.

I must have worn that Luton shirt for about 2 years straight; not every day of course, but on a pretty regular basis. It never stretched, shrank, faded or ripped. The only thing that stopped me wearing it was a growth spurt that saw me going from 4 ft 11” to 5 ft 10” in about 8 months. When stopping dead aged 13, the shirt just about fitted over my head, but I wasn’t keen on wearing it like a prototype boob tube, so off it went to the rag man. In the days before charity shops, people gave away their used and unwanted clothes to an old fella with a horse and cart, who toured the estates and terraces shouting out for “rags and woollens,” generally in return for a few shovelfuls of equine shite for the roses. Daft really; I could have got a ton for it on Ebay around the turn of the century. The shirt; not the shite.

After the Luton top went the way of all the flesh, the only football strips I had were for teams I played for; royal blue Scotland style at school, garish green and red at University, then plain red for the pub team. For a decade and a half I don’t recall hanging a proper football kit in my wardrobe, until December 1992 that is. The in-laws celebrated Barnsley’s 1-0 win over Newcastle, on my (ex)wife’s birthday, by getting me a Hayselden-sponsored Barnsley shirt for Christmas and I loved it from first sight. But the adventures of that strip may yet be another story…